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Friday, August 11, 2023

F³ What We're Good At 25

             The three of us ambled our way to the club’s entrance, Nikki linking arms with me on the right and Sonia on the left. There were whispers, laughter, and Nikki offered up some very frank innuendos to Sonia, giving the appearance of being drunk. I played my part as well, occasionally stumbling and slurring my words for dramatic effect. I had long-since given up my wild youth, so was acting purely on memory. It was actually pretty difficult to find some kind of balance. Whenever I got drunk, I tended to be philosophical, thinking—what I thought at the time—deep thoughts of the universe. But that wouldn’t work here, so I had to try and be like my brother Paul, who had been more of a free spirit while drunk.

            “You remind me of a girl from Nantucket!” I said loudly to Sonia. Hard as it was to believe, Paul had picked up his future wife Connie with that line.

            Nikki let out a peal of laughter, stumbling into me and dragging Sonia with her. The three of us veered hard to the right, almost crashing into a knot of four men in top hats.

            “Beg your pardon, Gov,” I said with a bad British accent. “Hey, is the governor here? I bet he could give us a pardon!”

            Nikki dragged us back on course, still laughing, while Sonia looked somewhere between amused and horrified.

            We took the final escalator down, me in front. I felt Nikki turn around, playfully bumping my back with her rear. I heard whispers to Sonia, but couldn’t make them out. No doubt Nikki was seducing the young girl even further, creating quite the spectacle as I saw at least three hostesses coming up the other side with their eyes locked on Sonia and Nikki.

            Nikki is really skilled at this. She didn’t need me hanging around. Guess I should be glad I’m not good at political games.

            Instead, I did what I was good at, and observed, cataloging reactions of others, especially those hostesses, noting the names on their tags, too.

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